


Baba and Chikno

by PNGuin



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Batman and Robin (Comics), Nightwing (Comics), Robin (Comics)
Genre: Bruce Wayne is Dead, Damian Wayne is Robin, Dick Grayson is Batman, Dick is a better daddy than Bruce, Gen, Pre-Reboot, Warning: Damian Wayne, Warning: Dick Grayson
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-27
Updated: 2014-08-26
Packaged: 2018-02-06 10:00:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1853851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PNGuin/pseuds/PNGuin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Talia al Ghul would always be his mother, and Bruce Wayne would always be his father.  But Damian had worked hard to earn the right to stand at Richard Grayson's side, and Dick Grayson would always be his dad (and mom, too).</p><p>Series of one-shots featuring Dick and Damian, father/son relationship.<br/>Rated for possible violence and language.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Baba and Chikno

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place late January, the eighth month of Dick and Damian’s time as the Dynamic Duo.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own anything.

                **It was his fault.**   That was the only thing Damian could comprehend, through the forming bruises, the splatters of sanguine blood, the littering of bodies that may or may not have been alive (Damian found he didn’t really care either way).  He vaguely realized that his hands were shaking, and, when he risked a glance down, all he could see was the sticky red that covered the green of his gloves.  Taking a hesitant step forward, he nearly stumbled on his own two feet, cursing himself for his clumsiness and squeezing his eyes shut against the wave of nausea that crashed down on him.  His knees locked painfully, before melting to a jelly-like consistency and sending him careening onto the cracked, stained concrete.

                He forced himself to his feet once more, swaying for several harrowing seconds until he righted himself.  The world spun and pitched in front of him, but he took as deep a breath he could with his cracked ribs and continued to painstakingly shuffle towards the bloodied, bruised lump on the other side of the room.  Several bodies, scattered across the warehouse, got in his way, and the ten-year-old picked his way over and around them.  He’s pretty sure some of them were still breathing shallowly, and he felt the overwhelming urge to kill them right then and there.

                Forcing the impulse down, he finally reached the limp body he had been trudging towards, almost immediately collapsing onto his knees at the figure’s side.  Dark red blood covered most of the figure, staining the blue-tinged black and the gray until it was almost unfamiliar.  Even through the blood and the thick layers of Kevlar, Damian could pick out the gashes and various wounds that marred Batman’s body, having sliced right through even the thickest of the Dark Knight’s armor.  A horrible, sickening thought made his ears ring and his head spin.  The heavy beating his mentor had taken, the amount of gore that coated the area around them.  It was too much.  There was too much blood on the floor, and not enough in his mentor’s veins, and-

                He was breathing.  Barely.  But Batman was breathing, his chest rising in a nearly imperceptible, uneven pattern.  A faint whistling, gurgling noise broke the dead silence in the abandoned warehouse, and Damian clenched his fists to stop their ceaseless shaking.  He wouldn’t be able to get Batman back alive if he allowed such useless bodily functions to hinder him.  Pressing his hands against the wounds, he hoped to stem the bleeding, while at the same time reaching across the unconscious man to trigger the button that would bring the Batmobile to them.

                “Batman,” Robin coughed, spitting out around the iron-tasting foulness in his mouth.  _“Batman,”_ he hissed, jerking the man a bit to get him to wake.  The Batmobile would be there soon.  They would meet it in the alley right next to the warehouse, and then the autopilot would return them to the Bat-bunker.  “Grayson, get _up_ ,” the boy spat, ignoring the tremor that plagued his voice.

                “Rrr-” Dick slurred, his consciousness too fragile and his throat too damaged to get the word out.

                “Dammit,” Damian muttered, although the venom in his tone was tempered by exhaustion, pain, and the seeds of worry that burrowed deep in his gut.

                They needed to get out.  Who knew how far off the police were, or if any of the many thugs were going to get back up, or if **_He_** would return soon to finish them off?  ( _You’re not my Batsy!  Where is he?  Where’s the **real** Batman?)_   No, Damian had to get them out of there before anything else happened.  They could **_not_** afford more trouble, not with his vision threatening to darken and Grayson quickly bleeding out on the ground.  He was Robin, and Batman was in trouble, and _damn it all_ , Damian Wayne was _not a failure_.

                _(Oh, ho ho.  What have we here?  The newest little birdie!  Maybe you will be more fun than the others?  Haha!)_

                Before he could even process what he was doing, Robin found himself on his feet once more.  The pounding of his head worsened, and his equilibrium was thrown off, but he righted himself as soon as he was able.  He crouched down, careful to keep himself from falling over, and hooked his arms under Batman’s, receiving a grunt of pain for his actions.  With the little scraps of energy he had left, Damian began the long journey across the warehouse and out to the Batmobile.

                The going was slow, and painful, and Damian thought that maybe that was how Batman and Robin would die (stranded in an abandoned warehouse, left to bleed out and rot because the Joker hadn’t even bothered to finish them off).  His whole body shook from exertion, as, even if Grayson wasn’t very tall, he still weighed a good deal with the entirety of his Batsuit, and he felt as if the only thing holding his body parts together was the suit that clung to his skin.  Several times he fell, and each time he forced himself back up, even if every time felt like it would be the last.  Grayson kept letting out rattling groans due to his battered body being shifted, and the arrangement of grotesque noises somehow managed to slice right through Damian with all the feel of an icy blade.

                The final fall he took was through the rusted door that separated them from the outside.  His back banged against the warped metal, and the Dynamic Duo’s combined weight broke the hinges and sent the door crashing to the ground, them along with it.  Fire laced through Damian’s muscles, ripping them apart and leaving him with hardly any energy to go on.  But what he lacked in energy, he more than made up for in will power.  He ignored his own shortness of breath, born from his damaged ribs, he hardly noticed the icy winter winds that stung his exposed skin, and he completely refused to acknowledge the fatigue that coated his limbs.

                Snow covered the ground, and most of everything in the vicinity, while beads of ice continued to pelt the ground at a vicious slant.  The wind howled with a booming ferocity, sending the frozen rain against Damian’s back.  He struggled to regain his footing, the combination of several feet of snow, the ice that was underneath that, and the strong winds threatening to upend him.  Eventually, his boots found traction and he once more started dragging Grayson towards the Batmobile, which was thankfully parked in the alley beside them.

                Damian pointedly tried to avoid glancing at the trail of red that marked their passage through the snow, instead fixing his eyes on the increasingly worrisome rise and fall of Batman’s chest.  His back brushed against the Batmobile, catching him off guard enough that he nearly flinched.  Had he not had so little energy, he would’ve scowled at his own imbecility.  He twisted in his spot, freeing one arm in order to get the door open.  The Batmobile’s top slid up, leaving Damian to clamber in.  He dragged Grayson after him, collapsing sideways across both the seats with Batman landing heavily on his chest and legs.  His vision was tunneling dangerously, and the boy only just managed to get the Batmobile’s door closed and trigger the emergency protocols.

                “D-Da…mi?” the garbled, painful sounding voice broke the silence, before Grayson’s head flopped down against one of Robin’s shoulders.

                Damian’s arms tightened around his mentor’s chest, as if that act alone could somehow hold the dying man together.  “I didn’t,” he slurred out, eyes drifting shut of their own accord, “fail…you… _Baba_.”

* * *

 

                **He jerked awake.**   Almost instantly, the fog that had wreathed his mind was burnt away by the memories that flowed through his consciousness.  Patrol, Joker, _Grayson_.  Various IV needles and tubes were ripped viciously away before he even thought.  Agony exploded in his chest from his cracked ribs, and his entire body _ached_ , but he practically lunged from the hospital cot.  His bare feet slapped against the cold metal of the Bat-bunker’s floor, and by the shivers of pain that laced up his legs, he knew that his ankles or shins were horribly bruised.

                The arrangement of medical equipment erupted into a cacophony of noise behind him, but Damian’s focus was on the other bed situated in the bunker’s Med Bay.  He needed confirmation, needed to be absolutely, one-hundred percent, without a doubt, positive.  Steady, even breathing, a bag of blood and an IV drip sustaining his stable condition.  Bandages covered a large portion of his chest, arms, and face, but they would heal.  Grayson was alive.  Damian had not failed.

                “Young Master,” the familiar voice interrupted Damian’s thoughts, causing the boy to spin on his heel so he could face the butler.  Damian hadn’t even noticed that he’d been gripping the side of his mentor’s hospital bed so hard that his knuckles had turned white.  “You should not be out of bed yet,” Pennyworth chastised, exasperation skillfully hidden in his tone.

                “I’m fine, Pennyworth,” the boy spat irritably, his scowl even more deadly than usual due to the pain he was putting up with.

                “I’m sure you are, young Master Damian,” Alfred nodded in appeasement.  “I, however, feel no need to test fate with a heart attack,” he continued primly, silencing the machines that Damian had set off in his frantic movement.  “Indulge an old man?” the butler gestured to the empty hospital bed.  “I assure you, Master Dick will be fine.  He merely needs plenty of rest.  As do you.”

                Damian narrowed his dark blue eyes, defiantly crossing his arms over his bandaged chest, only to suppress a wince as the action pulled at the few gashes in his torso.  He sniffed pompously, refusing to give Pennyworth the satisfaction of being right, and made a show of reluctantly trudging to his bed.  Pennyworth reattached the IVs and changed his young charge’s wrappings while he was at it.  Damian allowed the butler to work in silence, his eyes focused on Grayson’s heart monitor.

                “I have business to attend to upstairs, young Master Damian,” Pennyworth informed the boy once he was finished.  “I shall be notified if the readings of yours or Master Dick’s vitals change,” he added surreptitiously, offering Damian a look that was both warning and reassuring.

                At that, the elderly butler turned to make his way up to the Wayne Penthouse, leaving the Dynamic Duo to rest in the bunker.  Damian glanced at his retreating back, before averting his gaze to his hands which were nestled in his lap.  He picked idly at a cuticle, before rolling his eyes and letting out a faint huff of breath.

                “Your medical skills are…sufficient, Pennyworth,” Damian commented, attempting a tone of nonchalance, but coming out more strangled sounding then he would have preferred.  He felt more than saw the man pause and turn back slightly to face him.  “Thank you,” the boy added, equal parts hesitant and reluctant.

                Damian Wayne was Robin, and he was **_not_** a failure, and he had gotten Batman home, but Pennyworth was even less of a failure, and had saved Grayson from dying, and deserved a bit of gratitude, at the very least.

                “You are very welcome, young master.”

                And then Pennyworth was gone.

                Damian had reason to believe that **_that_** was where Father had learned his ‘disappearing act’.

                He leaned back on the hospital bed, training his eyes on the ceiling of the Bat-bunker and taking measured breaths in order to fall back asleep.  But Damian was simply not tired.  Or, rather, exhaustion was not quite enough to pull him under, and instead he found himself thinking back on the amount of blood that had previously coated his mentor.  The visions, while far from the most gruesome Damian had experienced in his short life, somehow left a near-tangible imprint upon his mind, and he could not seem to escape the memory.

                It took nearly half an hour before his resolve broke.  The images in his head would not go away, his wounds were beginning to hurt, and exhaustion weighed down on his limbs.  Carefully picking his way off the hospital bed (not disturbing his wounds like he had earlier), Damian disengaged all the devices hooked into him so that they wouldn’t alert Pennyworth and dragged a chair over beside Grayson’s bed.  Damian settled down cross-legged, steepling his fingers before his face and shooting a fierce glare at his unconscious mentor.

                “Damn it, Grayson,” Damian muttered quietly to himself.  “This is all your fault,” he scoffed harshly.

                His face twisted into a scowl, pulling at a still-healing scar along his cheek, before he let out a huff of breath and practically deflated.  His hands fell into his lap, and he couldn’t help but avert his gaze down to them.  Damian couldn’t really bear to see Grayson so bruised and wounded on an uncomfortable hospital cot.

                “No it’s not,” he corrected himself, voice barely audible even to his own ears.  “It’s **_my_** fault,” the boy admitted in defeat.  “You told me not to go after Joker, and I disobeyed you.  You aren’t…as big an idiot as I always assume, and I should have had more faith in your knowledge of the clown.”

                There.  He had said it, and had gotten it off his chest.  Even if Grayson hadn’t been awake to hear, that was hardly Damian’s fault.  He had apologized.  So, all would be forgiven, right?  Grayson wouldn’t **_punish_** him, at least not in the way that the League, or Father, or even Pennyworth would have.  Damian had, in the end, pulled through and saved Grayson (had saved his Batman like he was supposed to).  Grayson would live, and Damian wouldn’t have to go on without his mentor.  Everything was okay.

                Right?

                That’s how it was supposed to work.  He had been a good Robin.  He hadn’t even killed anyone in the past few months (even if he had been tempted plenty of times), nor had he gone against Grayson’s wishes too often (the Joker incident notwithstanding).  Damian had been good, which meant that good things should happen to him.  In a perfect world, maybe.  But Damian was aware of how imperfect his world was, and knew very well that bad things happened to good people all the time.

                Like Dick Grayson.

                It was his fault.  But he had done his best to fix his mistake.

                He wouldn’t lose Grayson.

                Would he?

* * *

 

                **When he came to, it was to the familiar sounds of the bunker’s Med Bay.**   Steady beeping filled his ears, bringing both a sense of relief and a minor headache, while the bed beneath him was uncomfortable and made him want to move, even if the sharp sting of healing wounds forced him to stay still.  He slowly blinked his eyes open, taking stock of his limbs and twitching his muscles to check motor functions.

                His breathing was a bit labored and painful, so he quickly deduced a few ribs were bruised, possibly cracked, and one of his wrists had been dislocated or broken, judging by the splint wrapped around the joint.  Several nasty gash wounds were covered with gauze over his torso, tape was placed over his nose due to a minor break, and he could feel the bandaging around his head, no doubt from an open head wound.  Overall, he figured the situation must have looked worse than it actually had been.  He’d probably be back out in the field within a few we-

                _Damian._

                Dick lunged forward into a sitting position, ignoring the burn as his muscles protested and his stitches pulled.  He nearly rolled right out of his hospital bed in his haste to find his kid.  But the sight that met his eyes caused him to pause mid-freak out.  Damian was alive.  The brat was okay.  In fact, said brat was currently curled up in an uncomfortable chair, arms and head resting on the edge of Dick’s bed.  The kid seemed to be in a deep enough sleep that the sudden movement hadn’t woken him up, and Dick wasn’t sure if he should be pleased or concerned by the lack of reaction.

                Doing a quick once-over of the ten-year-old’s injuries, Dick let out a breath of relief to find nothing life-threatening.  Damian’s chest was mottled with bruises and a few scratches that didn’t even need stitches, while, as far as Dick could tell, he had one ankle in a splint intended for minor wounds.  No major injuries.  A part of Dick, the short-tempered part that he had been trying to drown out the past eight months, wanted to mention that Damian deserved the beating he had received.  The kid should’ve known better than to go after Joker while Dick was out of town on League business (really, hadn’t **_anyone_** learned from Jason’s mistake?).  But a larger part of Dick was reminding him that he had done the same thing during his own time as Robin.  Not to mention, Damian had managed to get them both out of there alive.

                The brat was still getting grounded, though.  Big time.  As in _scrubbing the bunker_ , big time.

                Since becoming Batman and making Damian his Robin, Dick had learned why Bruce had taken such joy in forcing others to clean the Batcave for him.  There was something about it that was oddly therapeutic.

                “Master Richard, it is good to see you up,” Alfred broke his train of thoughts, causing him to glance up at the aging butler.  “But you should not be moving about just yet,” he reprimanded briskly, readjusting the various machines hooked up to Dick.

                “Sorry, Alfie,” Dick ducked his head bashfully, delicately resting his uninjured hand on Damian’s head.  “How long was I out?”

                “Three days, Master Dick,” Alfred supplied.  “Young Master Damian has been at your side for the past day and a half,” he continued, answering the unspoken question in his eldest charge’s eyes.

                Dick’s eyes once more settled on Damian’s sleeping form, and he lightly carded his fingers through the boy’s hair.  He…had not expected Damian to be sitting at his bedside.  Although they weren’t the first injuries Dick had sustained during his time as Batman, they were undeniably the worst so far, and Dick knew Damian well enough to understand that his kid was **_hardly_** heartless.  Mostly, Damian was just **_trained_** to be heartless, leading to the boy having a hard time showing any outwards displays of trust or affection.  Even so, Dick knew, better than anyone, really, that Damian longed to be loved, and to love others.

                He just hadn’t expected Damian to latch onto **_him_**.

                Of course, Dick was no fool, and he knew that Damian, while the kid never mentioned it, did have a healthy amount of respect and even appreciation for his mentor.  It was no small secret that Dick had been the first to ever treat Damian like a real person, so it was logical that the ten-year-old had at least **_some_** sort of attachment to Dick.  But, **_still_**.

                Really, Dick should have seen it coming.  It was the same thing that he himself had gone through with Bruce (and that Jason, and Tim, and Cassandra had gone through as well).  There was simply something about being an orphaned sidekick to a full-time hero that instituted a strong bond, more often than not.  When someone as young as Damian trusted another with their life, it usually led to more than just a professional partnership.

                Dick had expected a brotherly connection.

                Damian did not **_need_** a brother.  He needed a…

                “Well, am I clear to head upstairs, Alfie?” Dick wondered before his mind went down **_that_** particular road (he had been trying to avoid it ever since his first month with Damian).  “I don’t really want to sleep down here.  And I think Damian could use an actual bed.”

                By the look on Alfred’s face, it was clear that he didn’t want either of his charges moving farther away from medical care, but he knew a hopeless argument when he saw one, and Alfred was reassured by the fact that neither of them were presently bleeding out.  He nodded in acquiescence, before turning to make his way up to the penthouse to prepare their rooms.  “Master Richard,” the butler called over his shoulder, “need I remind you to take it easy?”

                Alfred’s warning look was rewarded with a brilliant smile the likes of which only Dick Grayson could pull off, and he barely suppressed a fond grin of his own as he once more turned on his heel and stepped onto the elevator.

                Dick methodically removed all the IV tubes hooked into his body and disengaged the machines in the Med Bay.  He slowly swung his legs over the edge of the bed and took his time in testing his balance and weight.  His legs felt like Jell-O after three days of not being used, and it took him a few minutes of stretching until he could walk around without the threat of falling over.

                Crouching down next to where Damian was curled in the chair, Dick contemplated waking him up.  Eventually, though, he decided to tempt fate and opted on picking the young boy up.  Damian wasn’t particularly tall for his age, but he was all lean muscle.  That being said, the ten-year-old was surprisingly light in Dick’s arms as he carried his kid to the elevator and up to the penthouse.

                Normally, Damian was a very light sleeper, and would wake at any minor disturbance, but it seemed as though the strain of his encounter with Joker and trying (unsuccessfully) to stay awake had worn the boy out.  Dick made it all the way to Damian’s room without so much as the kid twitching.  He silently pushed the door open with his foot, and made his way over to Damian’s bed.  With great care and gentleness, he settled the sleeping child under the sheets and tucked them around him.

                It was not the action of a brother.  The thought suddenly occurred to him, all but knocking him off his feet and forcing him to sit on the edge of his kid’s bed.  Sure, Dick had carried Tim to bed on multiple occasions (usually after having drugged the stupid teen so he would actually sleep), and he had done so with Cass a few times, per her request; he had even done the same for Jason once or twice, back before his first brother had died.  But, even then, **_brothers_** didn’t carry kids to bed.  That’s what parents were for.

                And none of them had any of those left.

                They still had Alfred; although the butler (bless his heart) was always so good to them, he was simply too aloof and distant to be a parent.  And Cass and Steph both knew their biological parents, but were both scared and hateful of them, while Damian had disowned his mother in order to continue being Robin.

                No, Dick realized.  Jason, and Tim, and Cass, and Steph.  They had all grown up on their own time.  They no longer needed the protection of a father (wanted it, perhaps, but did not need it).  They needed Dick to be their understanding leader and their loving big brother.

                Damian, on the other hand, was a whole other story.  The kid was **_ten_** , and, loathe as he was to admit it, he still needed his father (or, at least, **_a_** father).  Damian didn’t need an older sibling.  He needed a **_father_**.

                _Baba._

                That’s what Damian had called him, and that word alone was one of the few things that clung to Dick’s fragmented memory.  He hadn’t been conscious for a lot (mostly just laughing, blood, pain, the usual), but he had **_definitely_** heard Damian call him (someone?) ‘baba’.  Dick wasn’t stupid.  Far from it, actually.  He knew what the word meant, and the origins of it, and the fact that there weren’t many reasons why Damian would have said it.

                Unless he had been scared of losing Dick, the closest thing he **_had_** to a ‘baba’.

                Dick looked down at the innocent face of his youngest brother/kid/Robin/whatever the hell the brat was to him.  He rested his uninjured hand on the less-bruised side of Damian’s face, before leaning down and ever-so-lightly pressing his chapped lips to the boy’s forehead.

                “Goodnight, _chikno_ ,” he whispered softly.  “Sleep tight.  Don’t let the bedbugs bite.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: ‘Baba’ is the equivalent of papa in some languages (such as Arabic, Chinese, Greek, Persian, etc.) ‘Chikno’ is the word/term of endearment for ‘son’ in one of the forms of Romani. I realize that just because Dick and Damian come from these heritages, it doesn’t automatically mean that they use the vernacular language respective of each ethnicity. That being said, I was merely using their ethnic backgrounds as a fun way to express my love of the greatest Dynamic Duo and celebrate the (sometimes canon) diversity of the Bat Family. I did not intend for the content to offend anyone, and if I did, I apologize profusely.
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed my one-shot! I’m thinking of maybe turning this into a series of one-shots focusing on a father/son relationship between Dick and Dami (depending on how well this is received). Sorry if anything was out of character or incorrect (please inform me if this is so)!
> 
> Don’t be afraid to drop a review or comment!
> 
> Thank you all for reading!
> 
> ~PNGuin


	2. Red, Black, and Blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damian's first 4th of July with Dick goes like every other day with the Dynamic Duo: a psychopath on the loose, sassy thugs, and one of them becoming a damsel in distress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place July 4th, second month of Dick and Damian’s time as the Dynamic Duo.
> 
> Disclaimer: Star-Spangled and Saint Nick are of my own creation. Everything else belongs to DC Comics.

                **His feet hit against the rooftop.**   He immediately tucked into a roll, shifting to his feet once more and continuing his pursuit.  The soles of his boots were designed for silence, but even then a distinct thud came with every footfall.  He internally groaned, noting how it was always much harder to stay in stealth mode while running.  Of course, stealth at the moment wasn’t as imperative as usual, as the criminal he was facing already knew he was there.

                And by that, Batman meant that Robin very much did not appreciate stealth.  Yet another thing that they would have to work on.  (It seemed the list was always growing.)

                He could see Robin ahead of him, three rooftops separating them, and Dick idly wondered if Bruce had allowed the bright colors of the Robin suit just so that he could easily keep an eye on them.  Dick found that it was actually quite effective, and he was glad Damian had gone with a solid yellow cape (unlike the black and yellow that Tim had used).  On the other hand, he shouldn’t **_have_** to find Damian.  The brat was supposed to stay with **_him_** , and had instead decided to chase down the villain by himself.  And Dick was having to push himself at a brutal pace just to keep up (it was impossibly hard to run when he was wearing a Kevlar ball-gown).

                This was not going well.

                To make matters worse, the villain that they were chasing was new to the scene and there weren’t any files on him in any of the Batcomputer, Birds of Prey, or League databases.  He was unpredictable, and could have very well been trained by professionals.  Dick had ordered Damian to stay close, and they would scout out the villain’s abilities from a safe distance, but, of course, the brat had to go against orders and rush into things without thinking and-

                Damn.  Were all Robins going to be like that?  No wonder Bruce had had so many rules for them.

                As he pushed his legs to work faster, he propelled himself forward, reviewing the facts as he went.  The villain they were hunting down went by the name _Star-Spangled_ , or something else as completely ridiculous, and was one of the many ‘holiday-themed’ villains that seemed to congregate in Gotham (really, it’s not like **_Superman_** ever had to fight _Saint Nick_ on Christmas, or _Scarecrow_ on Halloween, or, hell, even _Poison Ivy_ on Arbor Day).  This particular villain was taking advantage of the huge supply of fireworks that Gotham City always had shipped in for the big 4 th of July celebration (if Dick had learned anything about Gotham, it was that they always threw the biggest parties to make up for all the death).  Star-Spangled, or whatever the hell his name was, used military-grade explosives to simulate fireworks, and had already killed several dozen people.

                He saw Robin disappear over the edge of a building, landing down in a road right on the edge of Crime Alley.  Narrowing his eyes, Dick leaped forward and closed the distance between them.  Lunging off the side of the roof, he swooped down in classic Batman fashion and found Robin surrounded by a horde of thugs.  Dick landed on the shoulders of a burly goon, sending his face smashing against the concrete, before he followed through with his momentum and nailed another square in the chest with both his feet.

                There were seventeen thugs, none of them armed, but they were gathering bits of scattered trash to use as weapons.  Two of the attackers were already down for the count, blood pooling around their heads from where they had been smashed against the dumpster, while Damian was facing off against another five.  The rest spotted Dick and immediately ganged up on him.  From what he could tell, they weren’t hired by any of the main Gotham crime bosses, and, if the stars sewed onto the shoulders of their shirts were anything to go by, they must have been hired by Star-Spangled (who was now nowhere to be found).

                Even if Dick and Damian were well-trained, if they didn’t play it safe, the sheer number of their attackers would overwhelm them.  They would have to fight smart, not like the furious way that Robin was.  Dick suppressed a groan at the kid’s tenacity, before dodging a punch thrown his way and sweeping the legs out from under one of his opponents.  They couldn’t afford a drawn out fight, which meant fighting fast and dirty.  Truthfully, Dick was perfectly fine with that.  If he couldn’t take out his frustration with Damian **_on_** Damian, why not on the scum of the Earth?

                One of the thugs lashed out for a vicious kick aimed at Dick’s side, and he retaliated by grabbing the limb and twisting it harshly, sending the man to the ground with a loud snap and a screech of pain.  He wouldn’t be getting up anytime soon.  There were still nine attackers on him.  Dick would have to speed things up.  He landed a series of crippling blows on one thug, before wrapping his legs around another and flipping them to land on the man’s head.  Following through with a brutal scissor kick, he knocked out two more men, nearly snapping the neck of one.

                Five of Dick’s attackers were left.  A blow landed heavily against Dick’s ribcage, sending a rattling effect through his lungs.  Two of the hired hands had found some lead pipes along the alley, and Dick knew from experience that piping actually made surprisingly good weapons, and he would no doubt have a nasty bruise later.  He knocked the piping out of one goon’s hand, before hitting him right in the temple and sending him crumpling to the ground.  Strong arms wrapped around his neck, squeezing his airway painfully and lifting him a few inches off the ground.

                The remaining thugs circled around him, one landing a blow right to his solar plexus and driving the air from his lungs, while the second goon with the lead pipe smacked him across the jaw.  Supporting his body’s weight with the grip around his neck, Dick lifted his feet off the concrete and kicked a guy into the brick wall of the alleyway, just as a ball of red, yellow, and green fury leapt out of nowhere and tackled another.  He threw his entire weight up and around, flipping so that he ended up behind his attacker.  Dick twisted his arm behind his back and kicked the popliteal region of his knees so that he collapsed to the ground.

                Damian was handling the final guy, relentlessly bashing the thug’s face in until it was practically indistinguishable.  Even when it was apparent that the thug was down for good, the ten-year-old didn’t cease his vicious assault.  Dick clenched his jaw, before stepping over to the boy and lifting him up by his cape, effectively separating him from his victim (and that was why it was mandatory for all Robins to have capes).

                “Enough,” Dick ordered, forcibly reminding himself that Damian was still new to the no-killing rule and that he needed time to learn how to temper his blows.

                “Tt,” the boy breathed out, slapping Batman’s hand from his cape.  “I had the situation under control.”

                “You were going to kill that man,” the new Dark Knight crossed his arms.

                “I was going to kill **_all_** of them,” Robin corrected coldly.

                “We don’t kill,” he forced out, his teeth grinding painfully in his effort to keep his temper in check.

                “They didn’t even have any information!” Damian exclaimed angrily.  “It’s pointless to keep them alive!”

                “Pointless?” Dick scoffed harshly.  “The **_point_** is that we don’t stoop to **_their_** level!” his voice raised to meet the volume of Robin’s.

                “My method works **_better_** ,” the boy spat, bringing himself to his full height.

                “As long as you wear **_that_** tunic and work under the name of the **_Bat_** , you will respect your **_father’s_** method,” Batman growled, looming over his young protégé with as much threat as he could.

                It was sorely ineffective.

                “My father is **_dead_**!” Robin screeched, and Dick couldn’t help but notice that it was not with the desperation of an orphan, but rather with the anger of a broken child.  “And I am **_not_** going to waste my time with his pathetic **_replacement_**!”

                “So what?  Are you going to go rogue and wear the cowl yourself?” Dick scoffed venomously, giving into the anger that was boiling over.  “In case you haven’t noticed, **_kid_** , you’re still a bit too short for the Batsuit!” he held out a hand a few inches over the boy’s head to emphasize his point.

                “And you’re not!” Damian snarled hotly.  “You practically have to use **_stilts_** just to see out the optics lens, you gypsy swine!”

                “At least **_I_** can go on all the big kid rides, ungrateful brat!”

                “Tt.  I have no tolerance for your piteous attempts to be worthy of the cowl!”  At that, Damian turned on his heel and fired his grappling gun, launching himself up onto the roof of a nearby building.

                “Get back here, Robin!” Dick ordered, practically straining his voice from the volume of his shout.

                But there was no reply, not even an ill-tempered scoff, as the boy disappeared over the edge of the building’s roof.  The kid would no doubt continue after Star-Spangled, even if all the variables were too unknown to estimate the result.  Damian was no fool, but he often jumped into a fight before assessing the situation.  Dick couldn’t follow the brat, as there were seventeen defeated thugs that took precedence, beyond even the urge to hunt down his rogue partner and ensure his safety (and that he was properly punished).

                Hopefully, the brat wouldn’t get himself killed before Dick could find him.

                “Well, at least ya got the ‘Dynamic’ part down,” one of the goons, the only one still conscious, remarked dryly from where he was propped up against a brick wall.

                Batman narrowed his eyes venomously, turning his head slowly to glare whole-heartedly at the thug’s audacity.  His fist drove right into the man’s already battered face quickly and efficiently, before he grabbed him the collar of his shirt and dragged him away to a more convenient interrogation area.  In that moment, Dick knew that he was easily as terrifying as Bruce had ever been.

                He really hated sassy criminals; and Robins, for that matter.

* * *

 

 **Grayson was not worthy of the cowl.** Some insipid, loathsome, primitive fool did not deserve the right to bear his father’s mantle; the gypsy filth hardly deserved to wipe the dirt off Damian’s boots.  He was soft, careless, and altogether **_pathetic_**.  No doubt Grayson would die within the month, leaving Damian to rise to his true destiny without the moron around to slow him down.  Damian found he rather liked the sound of that.  No Grayson around to scold him for being a good fighter, no Grayson around to nag him to ‘be a better person’, and no Grayson around to ruin the reputation Father had built.

                That being said, Damian was no idiot, and he knew a useful soldier when he saw one.  And Damian, if nothing else, trusted his father’s opinions.  If Father had trusted Grayson for the past fifteen years (trusted him the **_most_** , nonetheless), then Damian figured the circus orphan would have to do.  Damian reasoned that Grayson was also the only one of Father’s **_strays_** that was satisfactory for keeping the cowl warm until Damian himself could inherit it.  Grayson was at least better than Todd or, heaven forbid, **_Drake_**.

                That didn’t make Damian any happier with the situation, though.

                Grayson was nearly as bad as Father had been.  Neither of them put any amount of trust in Damian, and it was beginning to grate on his already frayed nerves.  He was **_Robin_**.  That meant that **_Batman_** (regardless of it being the lesser replacement) should trust him.  They were supposed to be **_partners_** , the _Dynamic Duo_.  But how were they supposed to do that if Grayson insisted on Damian tempering his blows, weakening his fighting prowess, playing the same silly game that had cost his father (and Todd) their lives?

                It was stupid.  And Damian was **_sick_** of Grayson’s games.

                So he would do this on his own, and Damian would prove that he was the true heir to the Bat Mantle.

                His target was pathetic at hiding his trail, especially to one such as Damian who had been trained by professionals.  It wasn’t hard for the boy to locate the route that the idiotic villain had taken, and soon Damian found himself racing across rooftops with a distinct feeling of freedom as the wind whipped past his cape and hood.  He refused to call the sensation _joy_ or _happiness_ , as those sort of feelings were beneath him, but he was aware that it certainly wasn’t an unpleasant feeling.

                Damian **_liked_** being Robin.  Being Batman would’ve been better, but Damian was, at the very least, _occupied_ with his current role.  It gave him the chance to prove himself, while at the same time offering experience for what he would one day become.  Mother had never allowed him much field experience, and the chance to hunt down criminals and put them in their place was far more gratifying than mere training.

                A shadow at the edge of his vision caught his eye, and Damian immediately zeroed in on the figure.  Thin and gangly, with just enough muscle to seem threatening, Star-Spangled was an unknown variable in Robin’s solo pursuit of purging the city.  But that wouldn’t stop the Boy Wonder from taking down Gotham’s latest psychopath.

                Star-Spangled seemed to be headed for the roof of the “C” Building, a cluster of three high-rises that housed many members of Gotham’s high-society.  None of them were anywhere near the prestige of the Wayne family, but they were the gaggles of rich citizens that seemed to flock at every societal party, every high-class charity, and every promising business meeting.  Robin assumed Star-Spangled was yet another lower-class Gothamite, looking to take out his anger on the rich, blaming them for his own misfortunes as if they had personally bestowed them upon him.

                It was a common occurrence in Gotham.

                Damian leaped off the edge of a twenty story building, allowing the weight of gravity to tug at him for a fraction of a second before firing his grappling gun and expertly swinging around.  He aimed for the roofs around him, steadily growing taller until he was able to reach the roof of the “C” Building, where Star-Spangled had since disappeared.  One last well-timed swing brought Robin to the top of his target building, and he rolled silently as his feet touched the concrete of the roof.

                An industrial air conditioning unit, humming jaggedly and adding to the ceaseless cacophony of the city, provided a sufficient cover for the young boy as he crouched right at the edge of Star-Spangled’s awareness.  Peeking around the metal of the AC, Robin pinpointed his target, and was displeased to see that the villain was not alone.  Damian was just close enough that he could make out the harsh murmurings from the criminal and his trio of henchmen, but the voices were too distant and muffled by the air conditioning for him to discern.  He muttered a near-silent curse at himself for choosing such a regrettable hiding place.

                Star-Spangled was average in build, with limbs that would’ve appeared lanky had the lean muscles not been accentuated by the man’s horribly colorful red, white, and blue blazer (although, once Damian got his hands on the villain, he would be more like red, _black_ , and blue).  Aside from the blazer, which was highly reminiscent of the American flag, Star-Spangled wore a pair of black jeans, reinforced at the knees with what looked like military-grade revisions, and lightweight boots that were nearly as high-grade as Damian’s own.  The henchmen around him, burly men with rippling muscles and calculated scowls, were less extravagantly dressed, but sported firearms that seemed to be of a high-caliber.

                They may have been new to Gotham, but Star-Spangled and his men were certainly not new to the business.  That being said, they were nothing compared to Damian.  He had been trained by the League of Assassins, by the best of the best, and he could surely handle a few minor criminals.

                With that thought in mind, Robin rolled from his hiding place, twisting and letting several batarangs slice through the air.  They hit their targets with precision, knocking the guns from the henchmen’s hands before they could so much as pull their triggers.  Damian left his opponents no time to regroup, and was quickly leaping right at Star-Spangled.  His steel-toed boot connected with the man’s jaw, bashing his head viciously to the side, and Robin followed through with an elbow to his collarbone.

                Before his elbow could make contact, a roughly calloused hand wrapped around his ankle and yanked him down, smacking his back and head against the concrete of the “C” Building’s roof.  A solid punch was delivered to his ribcage, driving all the air from his lungs.  He quickly flipped to his feet, narrowly dodging yet another blow aimed for his head, and slid between the legs of the meatiest thug.  Damian rolled to his feet and struck right at the man’s crotch, receiving a satisfying groan of pain before he followed his momentum and delivered a kick that all but shattered the thug’s kneecap.

                The second thug, less meaty than the first, but with a greater advantage of height, managed to snag Damian’s cape, pulling the boy in for a merciless beat down.  Damian fell back, nearly losing his footing, only to push off the ground and flip over the man.  He planted his feet right at the henchman’s lower back and used his cape to pull backwards and strangle his opponent.  Just before the second thug passed out from lack of air, the third made his move.

                A nasty strike to the back of his head left a ringing in Damian’s ears, and his body was thrown to the side from the blow.  He rolled with the force of his momentum, swiveling onto his feet at the last second, just as a round of bullets crushed the concrete where he had just been.  Damian cursed under his breath.  Dropping several smoke pellets, he weaved through the cover of the fog, using the thermal vision built into his mask eyelets to help him see.

                But it seemed as if Star-Spangled was better prepared than Damian had suspected.  Without any hesitation, the three thugs switched to their own thermal visioning and convened on the Boy Wonder from different directions.  Damian was able to land a solid kick to one’s knee and a single blow to another’s nose, no doubt breaking it, but an elbow slammed into the nape of his neck caused him to lose his focus.  He stumbled ever so slightly, nearly pitching forward onto his face, and his vision tunneled sharply.

                Strong hands grasped him by his arms, while a steel-toed boot lashed out to the back of his knees and forced him to kneel.  Someone yanked back his hood and grabbed a fistful of his hair (he would have to get it cut again; it was supposed to be too short to grasp) and twisted his head back at a painful angle.  By wiggling the slightest bit, Damian could tell that the pressure holding down his limbs was too much for him to escape from.  A string of curses, in several languages, flashed through his mind, and he grit his teeth in both anger and pain.

                Star-Spangled stood before him, towering over the boy in all of his villainous glory and no doubt with a long-winded spiel on its way.  Damian resisted the urge to roll his eyes, but allowed for a short exasperated huff of breath.  All of Gotham’s villains were the same: they would kidnap/tie up/apprehend/etc. the Dynamic Duo (or at least half of it), and then they would waste their time giving a speech and allowing Batman and/or Robin to escape.  All Robin had to do was let the man talk himself to death and then make his move.  Simple as that.

                Or, it would’ve been, had Star-Spangled been the ‘villainous spiel’ type.  Unfortunately, Damian found that the week’s psycho was not.  The reticent man gave a nod to his lackeys, who immediately began to bind Robin’s arms and legs while still maintaining a bruising grip on him.  They stretched out his limbs spread-eagle, tying the far ends of the rope to the multitude of faculty units that dotted the “C” Building’s roof.  He was held up only by the ropes, and he could tell that right behind him, the roof stopped and gave way to a drop of over forty stories.

                “Sorry to hit and run,” Star-Spangled offered unapologetically, his voice so annoyingly casual it made Damian want to spit in his face.  “But I’ve got more to worry about than just you, Boy Wonder,” he continued, standing before the tied up hero as his henchmen set up something behind him.  The villain glanced over his shoulder and let out a whimsical giggle, prancing over to what looked like a comically oversized firework.

                It was pointed right at Damian.

                “You know what they say,” he went on nonchalantly, lighting a match and watching it in awe for a split-second.  “Out with a **_bang_** ,” Star-Spangled chuckled, before setting fire to the fuse that would detonate the firework.  “Bye-bye, birdie,” the villain gave an extravagant bow, before he and his henchmen disappeared through the service hatch into the building (Damian was pleased to notice that two of the thugs were limping severely).

                He was not, however, pleased to see the angry red rocket-like contraption pointed at him, the flame quickly getting closer and closer to the main fuse.  The boy set to work immediately, twisting his hands and feet in an attempt to loosen the binds.  The henchmen had used sturdy knots, the kind used in the military and such, and had tied them sufficiently tight enough that Damian couldn’t quite reach the lock-picking tools stored in his gloves.

                Panic threatened to rise up, and he promptly pushed it down.  He could escape.  He had from much worse before.  A bit of rope was nothing compared to the death contraptions he had been locked into in previous adventures.  But his vision was still dangerously darkened, his head swam from the torrent of blows he had received, and his adversaries had been competent enough to put him in a situation where his various gadgets were all but useless.

                A quick glance at the firework confirmed his fears.  The fuse was unbearably shorter than he had last seen.  If anything, the flame seemed to be traveling even quicker than before.  Damian redoubled his efforts, tugging uselessly at the ropes that bound his limbs.  Sweat beaded on his forehead, and he forcibly told himself that it was merely from the heat and the smog of the city.  Panic would not help him escape.  He needed to stay calm.

                Of course, that was much easier when an explosive rocket **_wasn’t_** pointed at him.

                The fuse was exceptionally short.  Damian’s wrists hurt from yanking and twisting.  He was growing more desperate (he had even dislocated one of his wrists in an effort to escape).  The rocket was going to launch right into him and then explode.  It would probably kill him, if Star-Spangled’s apparent pyromaniac tendencies were as serious as Damian believed.

                He had once promised himself that he would look death dead in the eye and scoff at it.  That was surprisingly hard to do when death came in the form of the 4th of July.

                Damian couldn’t look at the firework, and he found himself squeezing his eyes shut.  What a horrid way to go.  Death by firework.  It was going to be even more humiliating than Todd’s death had been.  Robin grit his teeth and mentally cursed, trying once more to free any of his limbs.  His legacy, his reputation, would be worse than **_Todd’s_**.

                **_That_** , he decided, was the worst fate he could ever imagine.

                There was a bang.  Damian’s heart stopped in his chest.  He forgot how to breathe.  His body went rigid.  It was all over.  Here lies Damian Wayne, Boy Wonder of a mere three weeks.  May he rest in pieces.

                Nothing happened.

                The world was frozen for several drawn out moments.

                “I’m debating how long I should let you think you’re going to die,” an annoyingly familiar voice remarked, amusement coloring a tone that should’ve been anything but.

                Damian’s eyes flew open, instantly locking onto the idiotic smirk that was settled on the face mere inches from his own.  Batman was looking far too pleased with himself, and Robin quite frankly would rather have blown up than have been faced with his current predicament.  Glancing around the Dark Knight, Damian could see the over-sized firework, completely doused and no longer threatening to explode, while an unconscious and tied up Star-Spangled was sporting a few nasty bruises from where he groaned on the ground.

                “You let the henchmen get away,” Robin retaliated.

                Batman’s eyes narrowed, and his shoulders tightened almost imperceptibly, before he rolled his eyes and let out a sigh of exasperation, his stance relaxing considerably.  “At least I’m not the damsel in distress this time,” Grayson joked casually, his smirk growing insufferably.

                “I am **_not_** a damsel,” Damian spat.

                “Okay,” the fool shrugged easily, turning away from his young partner and going to collect the apprehended villain.  “Guess that means you don’t need any help getting home?”

                Robin’s mood soured impossibly more, and his face settled into a scowl so deep it would’ve impressed even the grotesque likes of Two-Face.  At that moment, a heavy barrage of fireworks decided to launch themselves into the air over Gotham Harbor, no doubt the finale for the over-zealous firework display the city threw every year (regarded as one of the best in the country).  Damian flinched from the noise before he could even identify it, and then proceeded to inwardly curse his weakness.

                “Grayson!” he snapped irritably at the man’s retreating back.  “Get back here, you insufferable simpleton!”

                Batman offered a friendly wave over his shoulder and a playful “Happy 4th of July, brat!” before hopping from the edge of the building and disappearing.

                “Dammit, Grayson!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Awww. Aren’t they just so adorable? HAPPY 4TH OF JULY MY WONDERFUL FELLOW AMERICANS!!!! AND HAPPY BIRTHDAY AMERICA!!!! For those of you who aren’t American, I hope you still enjoyed this chapter, and I hope you all had a great (normal) day!
> 
> I was going to have Dick and Damian go to Gotham’s July 4th Extravaganza, but then I realized that they’ve only been together for three weeks (in my personal headcanon timeline), and that Damian would never agree to go (yet). This was my compromise.
> 
> Thank you so very much to everyone that reviewed/favorited/added/etc. my story!!!! You all are so wonderful!!!!
> 
> Hope you all enjoyed this chapter!!!
> 
> Please leave me a review!
> 
> XOXO,
> 
> ~Gossip Girl
> 
> …er…I mean…PNGuin…


	3. Thicker Than Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Talia disowns Damian.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place in November, Month Six of Dd Dynamic Duo.
> 
> Guest Appearance(s): Talia al Ghul, Stephanie Brown

**He felt impossibly numb.**   It was akin to the sensation of being doused in freezing water for so long that eventually the body gave up on trying to feel warm and instead gave into the hopelessness of being cold.  His blood had dropped to the temperature of ice, his veins moving the slushy liquid about sluggishly, until he was fairly certain he would simply keel over from lack of blood flow.  Spots of black danced at the corners of his eyesight, threatening to overwhelm and swallow him whole.  It felt as though his lungs had since seized up, refusing to provide him with the oxygen that he needed in order to live.

                All of this happened in a split-second, and mere moments later he was taking a steadying breath in and facing down the woman – the **_stranger_** – that stood across from him.  He clenched his hands into tightly balled fists, and had it not been for the thick layers of his gloves, his nails would’ve broken through the skin of his palms.  His teeth ground against one another in a painful fashion, and his eyes narrowed in hatred and distaste.

                Forcing his tensed back muscles to relax ever so slightly, he lifted his chin in defiance, meeting the piercing stare of his enemy with an equally dangerous one of his own.  He would not back down, not after everything he had been put through, after everything he had suffered.  He was **_not_** a failure.  Not even if _she_ thought so ( _especially_ if she thought so).  She didn’t know how much he worked.  She never had.  She never would.

                She didn’t care.

                The realization shouldn’t have been as shocking as it was.  It shouldn’t have driven the air from his lungs, the energy from his muscles, the thoughts from his mind.  He should have known better.  To assume such things about her was a fool’s decision, and for him to blindly accept her theatrics had been a grave error in his calculations.  He should have known better.  She had never been a particularly good actress, and he should have been able to see through her lies.

                “You put machinery into my _spine_ , Mother,” he just barely refrained from snapping, his anger towards her causing him to ball his hands into tight fists at his side.  “You _used_ me as your weapon against my allies.”

                “I tried to save you, Damian,” she continued, her tone now so achingly false to his ears that it rattled emptily in his mind.

                “Save me from what?” he retorted, narrowing his eyes.  “From being Robin?  From making my own decisions?”

                “You honestly believe those heroes _trust_ you?  They are using you, _brainwashing_ you.  Sooner or later, you will be stripped of all your potential and be reduced to nothing more than a worthless _pet._ ”

                “The only one that has ever brainwashed me is you,” the boy soldier regarded her with ice in his tone and in his heart.  “You have used me as nothing more than a living weapon, and you will no longer continue to do so.  I have made my choice, Mother.  And my loyalties have become clear.”

                “You truly believe that?” she wondered stoically, her face giving away none of her thoughts.

                “Being Robin is the best thing I’ve ever done,” Damian stated boldly, holding his chin up and unconsciously puffing out his chest slightly in a childish way to show her his personal pride.  “I have done more as Robin than I ever have as Damian al Ghul.  I don’t need you to save me.”

                “Is this your final decision?” the international villainess wondered idly, no longer sounding as if she even cared of the matter of losing her son.  The very thought made his blood boil and freeze all at once, as if his mind could not effectively process the emotions such a notion caused in him.

                She turned her back towards him, facing the door at the end of the hall they had been wandering down, entering the necessary code.  The metallic door slid open silently, disappearing into the adjacent wall and revealing a decidedly high-tech laboratory.  His mother led him inside and he followed her until they were bathed in an eerie red glow.  Computers and various other pieces of technology far beyond the average person’s comprehension lined the room, but it was the red glowing sphere that dominated the available space.  Even though Damian had never personally encountered one, he was positive that the contraption before him was an artificial womb, if the still-developing infant was anything to go by.

                Abruptly, the apprehension which had been swirling around his heart grew, and he had a distinct urge to expel the contents of his stomach.  The feeling worsened as his mother gazed at the unfortunate child incubating in the womb and rested her hand on the outer edge of the sphere.  Her eyes held a deceptive look that was all too familiar to Damian, one that he had often times been the recipient of after their formal introduction on his eighth birthday.  At one point in his life, he had tricked himself into believing it was a motherly glance, a look of caring and fierce devotion to one’s offspring.  Now, however, Damian saw through the lies, and saw Talia’s gaze for what it was.

                Cold.  Cruel.  Predatory.

                A shiver ran unbidden up his spine.  Against all his better judgment, he couldn’t help but feel a well-warranted wave of pity for the unborn child, who was not yet aware of the danger it was in.  Damian found that he didn’t much **_want_** the unnamed child to be aware.

                “He’s _you_ ,” his mother broke the silence between them, still caressing the artificial womb with a lingering gleam of malicious intent in her hardened eyes.  “Created from the same DNA combination as you.  He’ll be ten years younger.”

                “A clone,” Damian iterated, the words, to his amazement, not coming out strangled or broken like he felt.  He wasn’t wanted.  He wasn’t good enough.  He was being **_replaced_**.  The revelation brought a whole new wave of unease to his stomach, and he found himself forcing a swallow past the lump that was forming at the back of his throat.

                “This is your last chance, Damian,” she spoke, tone attempting a visage of warmth, but falling flat against the blood pounding in his ears.  “You could still accept your destiny, my son.”

                Damian took a steadying breath, feeling as if the floor was dropping out from under his feet and he was plummeting in all consuming darkness.  “Can’t you just love me for who I am?” he wondered, desperation threatening to break his outward resolve.

                Instantly, all attempts at motherly affection slipped from Talia’s face, and was replaced with the intelligent, _deadly_ look that she assumed whenever dealing business.  “No.  That would never do, Damian,” she regarded him with ice in her tone.  “I’m a perfectionist.  And my affections are reserved only for the best.  Unfortunately, you have decided to fall from such favor.  However,” his mother continued as if it were a business transaction, “I shall permit you to leave with your circus filth in tow.  That is the limit of my generosity, and, the next time we meet, you will not be granted the leniency of blood ties.  We are no longer family,” her voice was professional, void of emotion.

                Her voice was as it always had been.

                He narrowed his eyes, the mask covering a portion of his face wrinkling slightly from the motion.  “We never were,” he proclaimed coldly, tone deceptively calm and even, although he felt anything but.

                She may have supplied him with half of his genetic code, but she had never been his _mom_.  Such a title was not handed out to cruel visages of emotionless capacity such as herself.  His life had been one of lies.  And she had been the liar.

                But, no more.  He was not a naïve little child.  He was Damian Wayne, Robin, the Boy Wonder, the Dark Squire, one of Gotham’s vigilantes.  He would not be a useless pawn for his moth-…for his **_enemy_**.  He would stop her, and he would protect Gotham.  Because he was a hero now, and his worth was no longer determined by the monster before him, no longer determined by how many opponents he could slaughter.

* * *

 

 **Dick was at a loss of what to do.**   It was a sentiment he had faced countless times throughout his life, but one that seemed to be growing rapidly abundant in the latest stage of his maturity.  Who knew being the mentor/big brother/main caregiver/…other such things to an assassin-trained ten-year-old could cause one to question themselves so much?  He certainly had not expected an easy task (the boy having inherited his father’s attitude and moodiness would’ve made him a big enough challenge alone), but Dick had not quite been prepared for the enormity of his task.

                How did one deal with a moping child assassin?

                It wasn’t that Dick was inexperienced in terms of handling children, or assassins, for that matter.  But with his various ‘honorary’ nieces and nephews, a trip to the ice cream shop, or an extra-long story time, or even a game of _‘Uncle Dick is Attacking the City’_ had always been enough to cheer them up.  And, certainly, most other assassins he had met were either far too old for such antics or, well, trying to kill him (so, of course, those methods wouldn’t have worked in such instances).  The closest he had gotten was in the form of his adopted sister.  Even then, while Dick considered himself relatively close to Cass, she had always been closer to Steph and Babs in those regards.  Not to mention Cass had always been rather rational and thoughtful in her actions and emotions.

                Damian, on the other hand, was not.

                And that was where the problem lay.  Dick had no clue how to restore his kid’s foul mood to his slightly less-foul normal temperament.  It had been nearly a week since their latest lovely chat with the Wicked Witch of the Middle East, Miss Talia al Ghul, and Dick was no closer to finding out what they had spoken about.  Whatever had happened between Damian and his mother, it had certainly affected the boy far more than he cared to admit.  Dick had been trying tirelessly the past few days to get his baby brother to open up to him, going so far as to letting Damian decide what they would have for dinner, taking him to his favorite (though he would never admit it) ice cream place, and even returning two of his prized swords.  Nothing, unfortunately, had resulted in the heart-felt brotherly bonding Dick had been hoping for.

                He shouldn’t really be surprised at his lack of success, but it still stung a bit more than he had expected.  After all, he and Damian had been working together for the past six months, and, while their teamwork was still spotty at best and catastrophic at worst, they had certainly come a long way.  However, theirs was a game of two steps forward, and one step back, and nights such as the one they were having did nothing more than prove that.

                “Go back to the bunker and have A patch you up,” he ordered his glowering apprentice.  “Batgirl and I can handle the rest tonight.”

                It was no surprise that the boy in front of him bristled immediately, masked eyes narrowing and expression settling into a scowl of anger and distaste.  “ _Fat_ girl is hardly qualified to handle this case!” he spat viciously, jabbing an accusing finger in the teen’s direction.

                “Quit calling me that!” Stephanie reacted by shooting her own glare in the kid’s direction.

                She opened her mouth to add another piece of her mind, no doubt a scathing retort that would send both of them into a verbal frenzy, when Batman smoothly stepped between the two hot-headed junior crime-fighters and tried to douse the tempers that had run a little too hot for his peace of mind.  Their constant squabbling reminded Dick of a comment Babs had said not too long ago, about how the two youngest members of the family were like their bickering step-kids.

                The idea had been funny at the time.  Now it was just aggravating.

                “Batgirl is perfectly capable of completing the mission,” the Dark Knight informed his volatile partner, trying valiantly to retain his own temper, even though _every second_ he spent arguing was another second the Penguin could use to escape.

                “ ** _I’m_** your partner!” Robin argued, practically screeching in his heated anger, flinging out his one good arm and taking a defiant, a _desperate_ , step in Dick’s direction.

                “So is _Batgirl_!” Dick snapped back, fed up with Damian’s insubordination.  “ _You_ happen to have a broken hand.  You will only get in the way if you come!” he all but loomed over his young protégé, testiness and frustration and utter exhaustion limiting the constraint of his temper.  He was running on three hours of sleep, the Penguin’s gang was going on a crime and killing spree, and he was completely sick of butting heads with Damian at every turn.  Couldn’t the brat just take an order for once?

                He noticed Robin shrink into himself ever so slightly, and took it as a sign of Damian’s defeat, and his own victory.  Stephanie had since fallen quiet, not wanting to get in the way of an angry Batman, leaving Dick to berate his youngest brother on his own.

                “Go to the car and go home, **_Robin_** ,” Dick ground out, pointing out a solitary finger in the direction of the Batmobile.  “Agent A will fix up your arm, and I’ll deal with you later,” he added, barely managing to not shout, referring to the way the boy had so nearly gotten himself, and his partners, killed.  “If I find out you disobeyed me, no patrol for a **_month_**.  Understood?”

                He waited for an answer, but only got Damian’s bowed head in response.

                “ _Damian,_ ” he snapped, effectively gaining the boy’s attention.  “ ** _Understood_**?” the Batman sternly reiterated, his teeth feeling as if he would grind them into nubs from the pressure of his tensed jaw.

                The Boy Wonder gave a curt nod, avoiding eye contact with his mentor, and clenched his one good hand into a tight fist.  At that, he turned on his heel and marched stiffly back to the alleyway where the Batmobile was hidden.  He studiously ignored the feeling of eyes on his back, even as he kicked irritably at a few loose pebbles, and he felt a wave of relief as he hopped onto the fire escape and made his way out of their sight.

                Without another word, Batman and Batgirl vanished into the night, swinging from rooftop to rooftop in an attempt to follow a now thoroughly disappeared Penguin.  Dick pushed all thoughts of Damian from his mind, ranging anywhere from guilt to having yelled at him to concern for his kid’s health, and instead focused on the task at hand.

                “Don’t you think you were a little harsh back there, Pointy Ears?” Batgirl commented lightly, landing silently as the two masked vigilantes perched on the roof of a building.  “You kinda snapped.”

                “Not now, Batgirl.”

                “Wow.  Moody much,” Stephanie grumbled to herself.  “What got your Kevlar tights in a twist?”

                “He could’ve gotten us killed.  He could’ve gotten **_himself_** killed!” Dick cried, throwing one of his hands up distractedly, while the other held a pair of binoculars to his eyes.  “He’s been even more reckless than usual these past few days, and I still don’t know exactly why!”  At that moment, his eyes narrowed in on a familiar nondescript car, the chosen getaway vehicle of a certain flightless bird.  “Ten o’clock, North Main Street,” he informed his young partner quickly, before diving off the roof and firing his grapple in one smooth move.

                Stephanie sighed.  “So, it’s going to be one of **_those_** nights,” she muttered, before following her kinda-almost adopted brother.

                A part of her really wished she had stayed home.  Getting caught up in ‘Dynamic Duo Drama’ was never on her to-do list.

* * *

 

 **He didn’t say a single word to Pennyworth.**   They sat in a not unfriendly silence, Damian stoically avoiding any form of communication or what could be perceived as defeat, and Pennyworth studiously setting his charge’s broken bones and splinting them.  The Bat-bunker was nearly silent, aside from the faint hum of the Batcomputer and the quiet efficiency of Pennyworth’s work.  Damian’s eyes strayed from location to location, trying in vain to find something _safe_ to look at.  Nothing did the trick.  Everything was wrong.

                _He_ was wrong.

                His jaw clenched and his still good hand fisted, and if Pennyworth noticed, he paid Damian no mind.  The young boy was left to stew in his personal thoughts, and he found that no stray concepts or ideas in his head were safe.  Nothing was right.  It was all going to pieces.  He had failed, and there was nothing he could do to fix what he had done wrong (the worst of it all was that he had no clue what **_needed_** fixing).  He had thought that…

                But, no.  He had thought wrong.

                A naïve idiot.  That’s all he was.  It had happened with Talia.  And now it was happening with Grayson.

                Everything was ruined.  Damian’s entire life was crumbling right in front of him.  And there was nothing with which he could stop the destruction, nor even prolong it.  Such an outcome had been inevitable from the beginning.  How had he ever fooled himself into thinking that Grayson…no.  Of course he didn’t.  Grayson merely accepted his continued existence because of his loyalty to Damian’s father.  But their partnership had been on the rocks since its conception, and surely their eventual disbanding had been unavoidable.

                Damian ignored the traitorous stinging that grew in his eyes, and he sincerely hoped that Pennyworth was too distracted to notice.  He blinked rapidly a few times, dispelling the prickling sensation, but still plagued by the despicable lump in his throat and clench in his stomach.  His body refused to answer to his attempts to calm his reactions, and he felt a surge of frustration so hot that it reignited the prickling in his eyes.

                Pennyworth had finished splinting Damian’s arm, and the boy roughly pulled away from the elderly man and hopped down from the medical cot, stomping off towards the elevator that would take him up to the penthouse.  He received no well-wishes from the butler, nor any trace of some formal _‘goodnight, young sir’_ that he had grown so accustomed to.  Damian was left alone to his thoughts, and the very fact that would have once brought him satisfaction now did nothing but plummet into his stomach and disturb the food still digesting there.

                Pathetic.  That’s what part of his brain tried to convince him.  Overreaction.  That was what the rational side of his brain was trying to say.  But the rest of him would have none of it.  Logic and reasoning was insubstantial in the face of feelings and emotions, a lesson that Damian had learned the hard way the past few days.  He wanted nothing to do with it, but it persistently clung to him anyway.

                He hated it.  He hated himself.  He hated the world.

                Perhaps someone, in a far different situation as he, would call him petty and selfish for his blatant disregard of the blessings in his life.  Damian would promptly deck them in the face and shatter their nose into a few hundred pieces.  But, no.  Not at that moment.  At the moment, he wanted nothing more than to escape Pennyworth’s far too knowledgeable eyes and retreat to his own privacy.  At the moment, Damian just wanted to _hide_.

                A disgrace.  That’s what he was.  His mother had informed him of such bluntly, and even Grayson had given up on Damian’s worthlessness.  The thought stung more than the boy cared to admit, and he bit down on his lip viciously, drawing a few beads of blood from the tender flesh.  Behind him, the elevator door slid closed, bringing him a sense of reprieve from the observant butler.  Upstairs, he knew, there were cameras strategically placed in all the main rooms, expertly maneuvered so that there were no blind spots.  But once he reached his own sleeping quarters, Damian would be safe from any and all prying eyes.

                He realized with a blunt sort of self-deprecation that he could very much use that at the moment, if the silent watery trails trekking down his cheeks were anything to go by.  Furiously rubbing at the traitorous drops, Damian ducked past the doors as soon as there was a gap wide enough for him to escape.  The boy dashed past the kitchen and the living room, heading down the hall and eventually all but diving into his room.  He slammed the door behind him, harder than was strictly necessary, and leaned back against it, his heart beating faster than it should’ve been after such a short sprint.

                Not the most stealthy of plans, a part of Damian realized, but was subsequently drowned out by the suddenly unbearable welling of sobs at the back of his throat.  He swallowed thickly and stumbled further into his room towards the closet, vaguely noticing that he was only clad in his combat trousers.  It didn’t matter, though.  **_Nothing_** mattered anymore.  Damian had failed.  He hadn’t been good enough.  He was no longer Damian al Ghul, and now Grayson had replaced Robin with Batgirl.  And, without Robin, then Damian _Wayne_ was nothing more than a shade.

                _He_ was nothing more than a shade.

                Damian ( _just_ Damian; he was neither al Ghul nor Wayne) was a failure.  And failures had no place in any pedestal of favor.  His mother and his mentor had both taught him that, the hard way.  He shouldn’t have been surprised.  He had grown complacent.  It was his own goddamn fault.  And now he had nothing.

                Nothing but an empty suitcase and a closet of clothes he could pack.

                After all, Damian was not a fool.  Not in any form of the word.  He knew a hint when he saw one, and he could tell when he was unwanted.

                Not that knowing made it any easier, of course.  In fact, knowing made it rather difficult indeed.  Before he could acknowledge the act, his legs buckled and he collapsed to the ground, his sight blurred and distorted from his held back tears and his throat sore from the effort of containing any verbal evidence.

                He was acting childish.  Horribly so.  And if Mother, or any one of his old tutors, were present, he would’ve received just punishment for such unfavorable emotions.  However, they weren’t there.  _No one_ was there.  And maybe, Damian thought to himself, his suffering finally breaking past the point of silent mourning, that was what made it worse.

                Damian didn’t know how long he stayed there, muffling intermittent sobs with the encasing of his arms, and clenching his broken hand tight in the hopes that the pain would turn his despair into anger.  It had no such effect, and the boy was left alone in the darkness of his misery.  Unwanted.  Unloved.

                It was only when someone kneeled beside him that Damian became aware of another presence in his rapidly decreasing world.  He immediately sucked in a breath, holding back the onslaught of infantile cries and tensing his muscles subconsciously in preparation for his punishment.  No such reaction came, and he nearly cursed himself for his stupidity.  Of course no punishment would come.  Those only came from Moth – **_Talia_** – and her assassins.  Grayson would give no treatment like that.  He would merely kick Damian out for not being good enough.  Not that the boy could blame him.

                “Damian,” Grayson’s voice sounded from right beside him, and it took quite a bit of Damian’s will not to instantly turn towards the deceptively gentle tone.  Instead, the boy twisted his head away from his mentor, discretely attempting to wipe his eyes against his arm.  “Dami.  Look at me.”

                The command was soft, but with enough authority for Damian to reluctantly drag his head in Grayson’s direction.  Still, his head remained resolutely bowed, and their eyes did not meet.  Damian didn’t think he could manage to, whether from his pride or his dread.  It occurred to him that he must look terribly pathetic, curled up on his bedroom floor wearing only a pair of pants and still unwashed from the patrol he had ran.

                “Damian,” Grayson tried again in that achingly gentle tone, and it startled Damian when he realized how unnaturally his mentor was refraining from any form of physical contact.  A pang ran deep through his heart, causing the boy to understand _why_ Grayson was using the tone usually reserved for abused/victimized children.  Obviously, this was Grayson’s way of releasing him from his Robin duties in the nicest way possible.

                “Why are you crying?”

                The question surprised him, enough so that he dared a quick glance up at his surrogate brother’s eyes, before immediately looking away once more.  He had seen Grayson’s eyes, and the concerned expression they held that was nothing like anything Damian had faced before.  Not like the cold, calculating stares his mother had given him, nor the untrusting glances his father once had in their brief acquaintance, or even the polite looks Pennyworth offered.  It held some form of unidentified emotion, one that Damian had never quite found a name for.  The thought unsettled him, and the lump in his throat seemed to expand.

                Grayson demanded nothing from him, content to sit next to the distraught boy just out of reach, waiting to see if Damian would answer the proposed question.  He watched with intent blue eyes, focused on nothing but the child before him, with nothing but worry and concern (and quite a bit of guilt) worming its way through his heart and mind.

                “I-” Damian started, self-consciously clearing his throat at how distraught his voice sounded.  “I am not Damian al Ghul,” he managed to choke out.

                “No.  You are not,” Grayson agreed without hesitation, confusion evident in his reply.

                “My moth-” here Damian cut himself off, before he could make the same fatal mistake that had tormented the first ten years of his life.  “ ** _Talia_** disowned me,” he corrected, spitting out the name as if it were a curse.  “I wasn’t _good_ enough.”

                Grayson was silent for several stretched out moments, and Damian’s heart pounded in his ears at the thought that his mentor shared the sentiment.

                “And you believe that I was thinking the same thing when I told you to go home,” he commented seriously.  “When I took Batgirl with me instead,” the older of the Dynamic Duo continued, and Damian could see him nod his head emphatically from the corner of his eye.  “You think that I replaced you, that I don’t consider you good enough to be Robin.”

                Damian turned his head away once more, glaring teary-eyed at some random pattern in the carpet.

                “Well, I don’t.”

                The statement slammed into Damian full force, and his breathing hitched painfully in his throat.  Mother had been right.  Grayson didn’t trust him, never had.  Grayson didn’t see his potential, didn’t appreciate all his hard work, none of what his mentor had once assured him.

                “I think you’re better.”

                Damian’s world pulled to a standstill.  He painstakingly turned to meet the, as always, utterly sincere gaze of his Batman.  Even through the tears clogging Damian’s usually sharp gaze, he could see the comforting, unnamed expression in the cyan blue eyes that he had grown so familiar with.

                “And you are, Damian,” the older vigilante continued.  “For such an apparently sharp mind, Talia has always been a fool, and nothing proves it more than her poor assessment of you.”

                He wanted to argue that Grayson was merely lying, that the vigilante was leading him on.  Damian wanted to make a scathing retort, maybe about Grayson’s inferior breeding or something that insulted Drake’s virtue.  Enough that Grayson would grow angry and yell at him before storming out and leaving the conversation at that.

                But he didn’t.  Because, maybe, he didn’t really want to.

                “I’m sorry that she thinks of you like that, Damian,” Grayson went on gravely, “because that is not fair to you.  But life isn’t fair.  In your life, you’ll find that there are many things that are thicker than blood, and that those who you are related to do not determine _your_ worth.”

                The tears had since refused to be stemmed, and Damian could distinctly feel the salty tracks running down his face and occasionally dripping to his bare chest.  Although shame aggravated the back of his mind, he found that he could not tear his gaze from that of his guardian’s, even though the prideful part of him very much wanted to.  Something small, and significant, inside of him yearned to bridge that undefined distance that Grayson had established between them.

                “I’m going to hug you, Dami,” the man broke through Damian’s thoughts, spreading his arms out in the boy’s direction and offering him an open look.  “And if that’s not okay with you, just say so.”

                Damian didn’t say anything.

                Warm, familiar arms wrapped around him, embracing him, curling around him until he felt no more powerful than an infant.  Usually, such feeling incited aggravation and irritation in him.  Currently, however, Damian found that the comforting support was what that unnurtured, childish part of his soul had for so long yearned for.  This was not one of Grayson’s typical hugs, not the silly, slightly clumsy, balance-threatening attacks that lasted for split seconds, before Grayson was bounding off out of Damian’s retaliation range.  This was something else entirely, something protective and empowering that was filled with that unnamed emotion.

                And, as Damian was pulled into Grayson’s lap, a soothing hand rubbing circles against his back, and his renewed sobs muffled by his possibly-more-than-mentor’s shoulder, Damian found that maybe he finally understood that feeling.

                _Family._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I’ll admit, I was totally tearing up at the end there (although, it could’ve just been because it’s midnight and I still have homework to do…)
> 
> In other news…I’M BACK!!!!! Sorry I took forever to update (hehe…whoops). Marching band leaves me with no free time, school started up, and it’s my first year taking AP classes (…yay), so things are a bit hectic. As payment for your wonderful and continued support, I made this chapter a full extra thousand words!
> 
> Sorry if Damian seems a bit OOC, but, in my defense, he is only ten. And I don’t care how much training he’s endured, ten year olds cry. Rather often, actually. Besides, Damian has cried in canon. And if he can cry in front of Bruce, then, logically, of course he could cry in front of Dick.
> 
> Thank you all so very much for supporting this story! You are all so amazing, and you have been a constant inspiration when I had horrible writer’s block for this stupid chapter!
> 
> I’ll try to get the next update out quicker (has it really almost been two months?), but, apologetically, I can make no promises.
> 
> Thank you for reading! Please review/comment/favorite/add/whatever!
> 
> Love you all!
> 
> ~PNGuin
> 
> P.S. Time for me to go study for a test over a book I never read! (Whoo…reading…)


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